Creek Series Quotes

This is my heart on CRACK." Robin when she sees Creek

She headed for a wide flat rock on the creek's bank, her posture still demanding 'no trespassing' but no longer 'trespassers will be shot.

I always thought 'love at first sight' was silly and incredibly irresponsible. Then, you came along and you flipped it on me. I understand it now. I do! ~Sheriff Derrick Decker

You hurt me all the time. You just don’t always leave bruises.

Life is a series of choices that we make, some of them are good, and some of them are not, but everything always works out in the end.

But usually not. Usually she thinks of the path to his house, whether deer had eaten the tops of the fiddleheads, why they don't eat the peppermint saprophytes sprouting along the creek; or she visualizes the approach to the cabin, its large windows, the fuchsias in front of it where Anna's hummingbirds always hover with dirty green plumage and jeweled throats. Sometimes she thinks about her dream, the one in which her mother wakes up with no hands. The cabin smells of oil paint, but also of pine. The painter's touch is sexual and not sexual, as she herself is....When the memory of that time came to her, it was touched by strangeness because it formed no pattern with the other events in her life. It lay in her memory like one piece of broken tile, salmon-coloured or the deep green of wet leaves, beautiful in itself but unusable in the design she was making

The berth belongs to you too. It will always be there when—if you want to come back.” Inej could not speak. Her heart felt too full, a dry creek bed ill-prepared for such rain. “I don’t know what to say.” His bare hand flexed on the crow’s head of his cane. The sight was so strange Inej had trouble tearing her eyes from it. “Say you’ll return.” “I’m not done with Ketterdam.” She hadn’t known she meant it until she said the words. Kaz cast her a swift glance. “I thought you wanted to hunt slavers.” “I do. And I want your help.” Inej licked her lips, tasted the ocean on them. Her life had been a series of impossible moments, so why not ask for something impossible now? “It’s not just the slavers. It’s the procurers, the customers, the Barrel bosses, the politicians. It’s everyone who turns a blind eye to suffering when there’s money to be made.” “I’m a Barrel boss.” “You would never sell someone, Kaz. You know better than anyone that you’re not just one more boss scraping for the best margin.” “The bosses, the customers, the politicians,” he mused. “That could be half the people in Ketterdam—and you want to fight them all.” “Why not?” Inej asked. “One the seas and in the city. One by one.” “Brick by brick,” he said. Then he gave a single shake of his head, as if shrugging off the notion. “I wasn’t made to be a hero, Wraith. You should have learned that by now. You want me to be a better man, a good man. I—“ “This city doesn’t need a good man. It needs you.” “Inej—“ “How many times have you told me you’re a monster? So be a monster. Be the thing they all fear when they close their eyes at night. We don’t go after all the gangs. We don’t shut down the houses that treat fairly with their employees. We go after women like Tante Heleen, men like Pekka Rollins.” She paused. “And think about it this way…you’ll be thinning the competition.” He made a sound that might almost have been a laugh. One of his hands balanced on his cane. The other rested at his side next to her. She’d need only move the smallest amount and they’d be touching. He was that close. He was that far from reach. Cautiously, she let her knuckles brush against his, a slight weight, a bird’s feather. He stiffened, but he didn’t pull away. “I’m not ready to give up on this city, Kaz. I think it’s worth saving.” I think you’re worth saving. Once they’d stood on the deck of a ship and she’d waited just like this. He had not spoken then and he did not speak now. Inej felt him slipping away, dragged under, caught in an undertow that would take him farther and farther from shore. She understood suffering and knew it was a place she could not follow, not unless she wanted to drown too. Back on Black Veil, he’d told her they would fight their way out. Knives drawn, pistols blazing. Because that’s what we do. She would fight for him, but she could not heal him. She would not waste her life trying. She felt his knuckles slide again hers. Then his hand was in her hand, his palm pressed against her own. A tremor moved through him. Slowly, he let their fingers entwine.

You hurt her and I'll hunt you down and kill you with a shovel,

It just felt right. Does that make sense?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Just being with you…it was…” “Like home.” It wasn’t a question, but it didn’t need to be because Evan was exactly right.

Thank you?” “For everything,” she said. “Just for being you. For being here. For loving me.” He shook his head softly before reaching up and holding her hands in his hands. His eyes shone, but he looked directly into hers when he said, “Baby, I love the fuck out of you.

Son of a bitch!" Cash erupted. "He's wearing Nate's guns." Reese had been too occupied gazing into those eyes to notice the oddity of a gun belt strapped around a naked waist. Cash was right. Those were Nate's pretty pearl pistols. Reese had never liked those guns. He liked them even less now. "Sullivan, ask him where he got those," Cash demanded. "What gave you the idea I can speak Comanche?" "Because you are one?" "You're a jackass, but I don't expect you to talk to a donkey." "This is no time to be funny, breed." "Then quit trying so hard.

More than anything I want to be your husband, Cam. I want to walk beside you every day for the rest of our lives. I want to fall asleep beside you and wake up to your beautiful face. Your heart is the only one that’s ever captured me so completely and you would make me the happiest man in the world if you agreed to be my wife.

When I was shipwrecked recently, for instance, I had the fortune to wash aboard a barge where I enjoyed a late supper of roast leg of lamb with creamed polenta and fricassee of baby artichokes, followed by some aged Gouda served with roasted figs, and finished up with some fresh strawberries dipped in milk chocolate and crushed honeycomb, and I found this to be a wonderful antidote to being tossed like a rag doll in the turbulent waters of a particularly stormy creek.

This period condensed in her memory into a series of classical paintings—not Chinese brush paintings but European oil paintings. Chinese brush paintings are full of blank spaces, but life in Qijiatun had no blank spaces. Like classical oil paintings, it was filled with thick, rich, solid colors. Everything was warm and intense: the heated kang stove-beds lined with thick layers of ura sedge, the Guandong and Mohe tobacco stuffed in copper pipes, the thick and heavy sorghum meal, the sixty-five-proof baijiu distilled from sorghum—all of these blended into a quiet and peaceful life, like the creek at the edge of the village.

The sun glanced off a long, wicked looking knife in the Comanche's grip. At least Cash wouldn't have long to mourn. The other Indians held similar weapons, but they hung back as their leader knelt next to Sullivan. He muttered something, low and guttural, a single syllable that sounded like an insult, then picked up a lock of Sullivan's hair. The knife descended toward his scalp. "No!" Reese shouted. "Me." The Comanche paused and stared at him with a spark of interest, almost admiration. But that couldn't be since the Indian had no idea what Reese was saying. He continued to try anyway. "Me first." He struggled, wishing he could use his hands to point at himself. "Shut the hell up, Reese," Sullivan said. "What possible difference does it make who they kill first?" "Who knows what might happen. While they're working on me, anyone could show up and save the rest of you." "In that case, me first," Cash drawled. "Me." "No. Yo primero!" "Kid, I'm the only one without a wife and far too many children. No one would miss me." "I would." The words were punctuated by the distinct sound of a rifle being cocked. All eyes turned toward the man who had appeared at the edge of the clearing. Cash's sigh of relief was in direct contrast to the sneer in his voice. "About damn time, Rev. We've been waitin' on you.

The color-patches of vision part, shift, and reform as I move through space in time. The present is the object of vision, and what I see before me at any given second is a full field of color patches scattered just so. The configuration will never be repeated. Living is moving; time is a live creek bearing changing lights. As I move, or as the world moves around me, the fullness of what I see shatters. “Last forever!” Who hasn’t prayed that prayer? You were lucky to get it in the first place. The present is a freely given canvas. That it is constantly being ripped apart and washed downstream goes without saying; it is a canvas, nevertheless. But there is more to the present than a series of snapshots. We are not merely sensitized film; we have feelings, a memory for information and an eidetic memory for the imagery of our pasts. Our layered consciousness is a tiered track for an unmatched assortment of concentrically wound reels. Each one plays out for all of life its dazzle and blur of translucent shadow-pictures; each one hums at every moment its own secret melody in its own unique key. We tune in and out. But moments are not lost. Time out of mind is time nevertheless, cumulative, informing the present. From even the deepest slumber you wake with a jolt- older, closer to death, and wiser, grateful for breath. But time is the one thing we have been given, and we have been given to time. Time gives us a whirl. We keep waking from a dream we can’t recall, looking around in surprise, and lapsing back, for years on end. All I want to do is stay awake, keep my head up, prop my eyes open, with toothpicks, with trees.

I set my coffee beside me on the curb; I smell loam on the wind; I pat the puppy; I watch the mountain. My hand works automatically over the puppy’s fur, following the line of hair under his ears, down his neck, inside his forelegs, along his hot-skinned belly. Shadows lope along the mountain’s rumpled flanks; they elongate like root tips, like lobes of spilling water, faster and faster. A warm purple pigment pools in each ruck and tuck of the rock; it deepens and spreads, boring crevasses, canyons. As the purple vaults and slides, it tricks out the unleafed forest and rumpled rock in gilt, in shape-shifting patches of glow. These gold lights veer and retract, shatter and glide in a series of dazzling splashes, shrinking, leaking, exploding. The ridge’s bosses and hummocks sprout bulging from its side; the whole mountain looms miles closer; the light warms and reddens; the bare forest folds and pleats itself like living protoplasm before my eyes, like a running chart, a wildly scrawling oscillograph on the present moment. The air cools; the puppy’s skin is hot. I am more alive than all the world.

Live water heals memories. I look up the creek and here it comes, the future, being borne aloft as on a winding succession of laden trays. You may wake and look from the window and breathe the real air, and say, with satisfaction or longing, “This is it.” But if you look up the creek, if you look up the creek in any weather, your spirit fills, and you are saying, with an exulting rise of the lungs, “Here it comes!” Here it comes. In the far distance I can see the concrete bridge where the road crosses the creek. Under the bridge and beyond it the water is flat and silent, blued by distance and stilled by depth. It is so much sky, a fallen shred caught in the cleft of banks. But it pours. The channel here is straight as an arrow; grace is itself an archer. Between the dangling wands of bankside willows, and Osage orange, I see the creek pour down. It spills toward me streaming over a series of sandstone tiers, down and down, and down. I feel as though I stand at the foot of an infinitely high staircase, down which some exuberant spirit is flinging tennis ball after tennis ball, eternally, and the one thing I want in the world is a tennis ball.

Driscoll preached a sermon called “Sex: A Study of the Good Bits of Song of Solomon,” which he followed up with a sermon series and an e-book, Porn-again Christian (2008). For Driscoll, the “good bits” amounted to a veritable sex manual. Translating from the Hebrew, he discovered that the woman in the passage was asking for manual stimulation of her clitoris. He assured women that if they thought they were “being dirty,” chances are their husbands were pretty happy. He issued the pronouncement that “all men are breast men. . . . It’s biblical,” as was a wife performing oral sex on her husband. Hearing an “Amen” from the men in his audience, he urged the ladies present to serve their husbands, to “love them well,” with oral sex. He advised one woman to go home and perform oral sex on her husband in Jesus’ name to get him to come to church. Handing out religious tracts was one thing, but there was a better way to bring about Christian revival. 13 Driscoll reveled in his ability to shock people, but it was a series of anonymous blog posts on his church’s online discussion board that laid bare the extent of his misogyny. In 2006, inspired by Braveheart, Driscoll adopted the pseudonym “William Wallace II” to express his unfiltered views. “I love to fight. It’s good to fight. Fighting is what we used to do before we all became pussified,” before America became a “pussified nation.” In that vein, he offered a scathing critique of the earlier iteration of the evangelical men’s movement, of the “pussified James Dobson knock-off crying Promise Keeping homoerotic worship . . .” where men hugged and cried “like damn junior high girls watching Dawson’s Creek.” Real men should steer clear. 14 For Driscoll, the problem went all the way back to the biblical Adam, a man who plunged humanity headlong into “hell/ feminism” by listening to his wife, “who thought Satan was a good theologian.” Failing to exercise “his delegated authority as king of the planet,” Adam was cursed, and “every man since has been pussified.” The result was a nation of men raised “by bitter penis envying burned feministed single mothers who make sure that Johnny grows up to be a very nice woman who sits down to pee.” Women served certain purposes, and not others. In one of his more infamous missives, Driscoll talked of God creating women to serve as penis “homes” for lonely penises. When a woman posted on the church’s discussion board, his response was swift: “I . . . do not answer to women. So, your questions will be ignored.” 15

I'll

would

looked

socialize

still

Andy

her shocking head of strawberry blonde hair. "Hi, Bwie." Rose waved her hand once like a windshield wiper. She looked at Rose face to face. "Where've you and your mom been this time?" Rose tugged on her mom's shirt sleeve, pulling her head down so that her little mouth could reach her

done.

Suddenly, he had a mental image of Xylda so vivid that it almost brought tears to his eyes: this whole rush of past experiences, brought back by that one inhalation. He knew he said something to Creek before he turned to walk back to the car, but he couldn’t recall what it was a minute later. He had to sit in the car for a while before he left to run his errands. He pulled out his list of errands from his pocket and pretended to be studying it until he was calm and composed

It was a connection that if we followed it, it might lead us down the road of the greatest adventure of our life. But all roads had bumps, and I was afraid ours might be filled with craters. His

Honey, some folks is so unhappy they’ve got to share it with others. Don’t be too hard on her.

When you realize your happiness is your own to claim, you start to make the decisions that will lead you to it.

I enjoyed this book. The author's love for Jesus just shines through. The family and friendship bonds are really nice to see, and I especially enjoyed Flare's positive personality. Some things weren't fleshed out or explained as much as I would have liked, but this is the first in a series, so I'm sure more will be expanded on in the sequels. There were also a lot of characters to keep up with! But the story was very creative. The idea of animals talking, shape-shifting and living and communicating with humans was really cool and had me wishing I could talk with my pets :)' ~Review from Anthony on Amazon.

I enjoyed this book. The author's love for Jesus just shines through. The family and friendship bonds are really nice to see, and I especially enjoyed Flare's positive personality. Some things weren't fleshed out or explained as much as I would have liked, but this is the first in a series, so I'm sure more will be expanded on in the sequels. There were also a lot of characters to keep up with! But the story was very creative. The idea of animals talking, shape-shifting and living and communicating with humans was really cool and had me wishing I could talk with my pets :)' ~Review from Anthony on Amazon. (Otherwise known as Writing4Jesus on youtube.)

The Winter Rescue,

that he had to be respectful to his parents, and even if he wasn’t a Christian, he couldn’t make fun of people who went to church. He was also supposed to go to church, even if his parents didn’t go—which lots of parents don’t, and should. As you maybe know, if you’ve read some of the other stories about the Sugar Creek Gang, about half of us were not Christians at first. Little Jim had nearly all the religion there was in the whole gang, but most of us became Christians. Dragonfly was the last one of us to be saved—except for little red-haired Tom Till, whose father wouldn’t believe in God and whose mother had never had a chance in life to be happy, which is maybe one reason Little Tom Till’s big brother, Bob, had turned out to be such a bad boy. It is not easy for a boy to become a Christian unless his father is one too. Most boys do what their dads

know. That’s the real reason I resigned from teaching. Also, some of you know that we have already finished our missionary training. “You will be interested to know that our good friend Mr. Seneth Paddler, whom you boys affectionately call ‘Old Man Paddler,’ has undertaken to support both of us while we are on the mission field.” Mrs. Jesperson waited a minute while a lot of us asked questions, and then just as we were getting close to our school again, she said, “Some of you have said you don’t like Mr. Black. But I’m sure you will like him just as soon as you get better acquainted with him. Be sure to obey him in everything and be as kind and gentlemanly as possible. I am sure you will have a very happy year together. Remember that he does not know you as I have known you, and at first he may not understand you. Please be loyal to the principles of the Sugar Creek School, which have been yours for years. “I think it was very generous and thoughtful of Mr. Black to let us have this time together.

downstairs with his camera, coming in a big

I have hazarded into a new corner of the world, an unknown spot, a Brigadoon. Before me extends a low hill trembling in yellow brome, and behind the hill, filling the sky, rises an enormous mountain ridge, forested, alive and awesome with brilliant blown lights. I have never seen anything so tremulous and live. Overhead, great strips and chunks of cloud dash to the northwest in a gold rush. At my back the sun is setting- how can I have not noticed before that the sun is setting? My mind has been a blank slab of black asphalt for hours, but that doesn’t stop the sun’s wild wheel. I set my coffee on the curb; I smell loam on the wind; I pat the puppy; I watch the mountain. Shadows lope along the mountain’s rumpled flanks; they elongate like root tips, like lobes of spilling water, faster and faster. A warm purple pigment pools in each ruck and tuck of the rock; it deepens and spreads, boring crevasses, canyons. As the purple vaults and slides, it tricks out the unleafed forest and rumpled rock in gilt, in shape-shifting patches of glow. These gold lights veer and retract, shatter, and glide in a series of dazzling splashes, shrinking, leaking, exploding. The ridge’s bosses and hummocks sprout bulging from its sides; the whole mountain looms miles closer; the light warms and reddens; the bare forest folds and pleats itself like living protoplasm before my eyes, like a running chart, a wildly scrawling oscillography on the present moment. The air cools; the puppy’s skin is hot. I am more alive than all the world. This is it, I think, this is it, right now, the present, this empty gas station, here, this western wind, this tang of coffee on the tongue, and I am patting the puppy, I am watching the mountain. Version 1 (joy)

Derrick, you have to make the air move out of her tummy. You are not assaulting her. You're saving her from a stomach ache. ~Anne Howard

bag down before heading to turn out the fluorescent

Very

five-foot-high

lights across the street. As he tossed the boards into the huge metal box, he recognized the light blue coat, the matching hat and the brown

also

a

chin

Beams

cul-de-sac.

fresh

school

to

gotten

tables

opening

contained

hands

some

divorce

father.

getting-involved-with-parents-of-students thing." "That is weird. If I had a kid, I wouldn't want his

the

You have puffy sleep eyes. Very cute.

Well, it didn’t feel very good to have half of our mystery spoiled for us. We found out that Barry and Eagle Eye had made it up between them that Eagle Eye was to put on a wig and do what he had done, just to give us an adventure in that Indian cemetery.

Whatever archive or courthouse we visited in Huntsville left one impression on me above all others. There was a huge mural tracing Alabama history. It started with the Native Americans - the Cherokees in the Northeast, the Creeks across the East, the Choctaws in the Southwest, and the Chickasaws in the Northwest. It then moved on to planter after judge after governor after businessman, as if that's all Alabama history was - a series of successful white men who came after the removal of noble, civilized, but still-in-the-way savages. There was not one black man or woman on that mural. For all of our suffering and sacrifice, turmoil and toil, it was like we never even existed, or - better yet - built Alabama.

The first campsite is at mile 7.0 (6,180), but it is small and does not have a nearby water source. The trail continues climbing, following a series of switchbacks until reaching a bench known as Lenny’s Rest in honor of Eagle Scout Leonard Southwell, at mile 7.9 (6,543). There is an intersection here with Indian Creek Trail #800, a single-track sometimes used as an alternate to Waterton Canyon. The trail then descends, crossing Bear Creek at mile 8.7 (6,177). This is the last reliable water source until the end of Segment 1 at the South Platte River. There are several good campsites in this area. At mile 9.8 (6,689) the CT begins to parallel and then occasionally cross West Bear Creek. There is a good, dry campsite at mile 11.8 (7,309) near leaning rocks. The trail continues climbing to a ridge at mile 12.6 (7,517), the segment’s highest point. From here, the CT descends 4 miles before reaching a gentle, grassy slope on a hillside with possible campsites at mile 16.6 (6,240) offering the convenience of river water a short distance below. Travel another 0.2 mile before reaching Douglas County Rd 97 and the South Platte River Trailhead, the end of Segment 1, at mile 16.8 (6,117). From here, the trail continues over the river on the Gudy Gaskill Bridge, the last water for over 10 miles. Due to private property, there is no camping along the river.

our loved ones are there for all of our special times, even if we can’t see them.

When you find the person you want to spend your life with, make sure you let them know up front what matters to you. And if those things change, don’t stay quiet about it. You can’t grow together unless you communicate your feelings.

We can create anything we want on our canvas, and if we don’t like what we make, we can start over until we design the work of art we’re happy with. It’s an exhilarating thought.

You made your choices and I’m going to make mine. That’s how life goes, right? We’re all responsible for our own happiness.

because of their having such big voices and being so important. A little later one of them stood up to pray. He had such a deep voice and used such long words that it made God seem very far away, and his voice had a little growl in it, like a bear’s. Just then I thought of Poetry and looked at him. And would you believe it? His mischievous blue eyes looked right straight into mine, and before I could stop myself, I’d snickered out loud. Just that very second I thought of my dad, too, and I looked back at him. He was looking straight at me with his long blackish-red eyebrows down and with a scowl on his forehead. Well, I was sorry, but I knew that wouldn’t help because I’d promised to be good in church and not get into mischief. But let me tell you about the important thing that happened that night. The meeting kept right on going, band and choir music, solos and quartets, and a very interesting sermon.

When I’d first started praying for Circus’s dad, I’d sort of expected God to answer my prayer right away, anyway in a week or two. I didn’t realize then that a person had to hear the gospel preached first and that nobody ever gets saved unless somebody tells him about Jesus. Besides, God won’t just come to a man’s heart and batter it open in order to get in. You have to open that door yourself. So I’d decided if I had to wait a long time I would, but I would keep right on praying. Anyhow, the minister who preached that night talked about the home. I was sure Circus’s dad was outside somewhere listening, but I certainly didn’t expect him to be much interested in that. That’s why I was so surprised when I got my prayer answered. This is the way it happened. Every now and then during the sermon I glanced over at Circus to see how he liked it. But I didn’t need to worry about him not liking it. He was listening for all he was worth. Good old Circus, with his monkey face, his

strong athletic body, and his brown hair combed nice and straight. He’d even cleaned his fingernails and washed his neck and ears, which I knew he didn’t like to do. There he was, sitting up straight and listening with shining eyes, in spite of knowing that as soon as the meeting was over he’d have to go home to a weathered old house with poor furniture and worn-out rugs on the floor and a swearing, drinking father who didn’t like him. I remembered the time about a month ago when Circus’s dad had been drunk on the same night they had a new baby at their house. Circus had stayed all night at my house. He and I were upstairs undressing, and he got tears in his eyes and doubled up his fists and looked terribly fierce because he was so mad at the people who made and sold beer and whiskey. That was the night he had said, his voice all trembly, “I wish they’d just once take a picture of my dad when he’s drunk and put that in their

Creek was his best friend.

He doesn’t set out to lie. The problem is that he doesn’t excel at follow through.

Don't tell me it is impossible, until after I have already done it.

Animals only did what was within their nature to do. People could always be depended upon to pervert their own nature.

Before the Five Civilized Tribes—the Cherokee, Choctaw, Creek, Chickasaw, and Seminole—were forced to leave their homes and tribal lands in the Southeast, many had assimilated in order to save themselves, to keep their land. They cut their hair and wore western clothes and adopted white ways to make whites feel “safer” around “Native” Americans. They owned hundreds of slaves, who walked with them during the Great Removal to Indian Territory in Oklahoma and Alabama. Slaveholding Indians? I never learned about that in school.

I was born to walk the Earth, experience the amazing beauty of this planet, and witness the splendor and magic of all things—to be overwhelmed by a ray of sunlight, touched by an encounter with a frog, and mystified by the texture of a rock wall. I was born to splash through the creeks, sing through the canyons, laugh with the squirrels, just as I did as a small child in the woods behind our family’s home. I was born to be a kid, and not take life too seriously, or get sidetracked by a career, a project, or anything that ties me down to the life of bills, shiny new toys, status, and pavement.

The chart will show water depth in most larger creeks, and anywhere you note good depths of five feet right against the shore approaching a junction of two creeks or a creek and a river, you can bet there will be linesiders hanging around.

When you have anxiety, you don’t feel like a normal person. You feel like an oddball, like a freak. Like you’re the only one who isn’t right in the head.” He nods which spurs me on. “Take the number three, for instance. It looks like half of the number eight. Eight is perfect and round and complete; three looks like half of it, so the number three is a freak.” “Go on,” he says. “The number five is sort of a backward version of three, so it’s a backward freak, which is freakier than a freak.” “What about the number seven?” “Seven looks like an upside-down number one when it has a foot at the base. Upside down is as bad as backwards.” “And the number nine?” he wants to know. “Upside-down six.” “Why can’t the number six be an upside-down nine?” “Because six comes first, so nine has to be an upside-down six,” I explain. “And you find comfort in these numbers because they’re imperfect?” “I can relate to them.” Then I drop the bomb of my reasoning, “Odd numbers are just as important as even numbers, they just aren’t perfect.” “Like odd people are just as important as perfect people, huh?” “Just like that.” “I’m mighty glad you stopped by, Amelia,” he says, sounding like he really means it. “You are? Why?” I wonder if he wants to cancel his daughter’s beading lessons or something?

if you start to talk about you do I buy you a mirror for your birthday? Robert Sherriff-Australian - Actor-Model-Poet- Author-Singer- Historian - Photographer Robert Sherriff Author of NOBODY'S HOME Robert Sherriff Author of Dirkbell – CHILDREN'S BOOK Part of Wolf Creek TV series 2015 Part of Movie 'Maurice’s Symphony’ 2015 Motivation Speaker Movie - Snuff 2016 Movie - CULT 2016 Australian Copyright Act 1968 0466246021

The creek was South Indian Creek. When the settlers moved in, they liked the Indian's names better than they liked the Indians.

Make Me Yours The Bellamy Creek Series Melanie Harlow

I used to be able to see flying insects in the air. I'd look ahead and see, not the row of hemlocks across the road, but the air in front of it. My eyes would focus along that column of air, picking out flying insects. But I lost interest, I guess, for I dropped the habit. Now I can see birds. Probably some people can look at the grass at their feet and discover all the crawling creatures. I would like to know grasses and sedges--and care. Then my least journey into the world would be a field trip, a series of happy recognitions.

was always quoting what some famous somebody

and I were talking, he said to me, “Mom lets me water her

to

Tethered to the past by phantom chains of longing. Tethered to a place by illusions of belonging. Tethered to a girl who left without a glance. Tethered to a life that never had a chance.

I should have known when I fished that Pink Floyd T-shirt out of the creek that it belonged to that waitress, the one who disappeared." - First line of Death in Trout Fork, book #1 of the Ryn Lowell Colorado Mysteries series.

For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish, but have eternal life.

the defences where a creek runs

Women who refused to be cast in the shadows of history are the reason we have the degree of equality we have today. Those who hunt out the wealthiest mate they can, to bring forth new generations of privilege,

The Black Creek Series Book

But it was hard for Poetry to stay angry very long. Nearly everything anybody said or did reminded him of a poem.

Tilt-a-Whirl